


Falling into place

by AirgiodSLV



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-20
Updated: 2009-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ryan fidgets for a moment, fussy and awkward again. “So that’s it,” he says slowly, careful.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling into place

**Author's Note:**

> Divorce fic. Thanks to [](http://sunsetmog.livejournal.com/profile)[**sunsetmog**](http://sunsetmog.livejournal.com/) for looking it over and to [](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/profile)[**disarm_d**](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/) for the encouragement.

Spencer invites Brendon along, but he actually has a legitimate excuse, something he’s had on his schedule for a while now. Spencer privately thinks that even if he didn’t, he would have found a way out of it, but that’s not being entirely fair.

Ryan shows up to lunch in a three-piece suit, despite the heat that has Spencer’s t-shirt clinging damply to his shoulder blades. His limbs still move awkwardly when he spots Spencer and raises a hand in greeting, just like they did when he was fifteen and wearing band shirts.

“A suit?” Spencer asks, raising his eyebrows as soon as Ryan gets to the table.

Ryan smoothes a hand over his tie, sweeping his coat forward as he sits. “It’s new,” he says by way of explanation. “What are you ordering?”

They catch up over soda pop, filling in the details of their last few months. Then they talk about mutual acquaintances and the trials of hiring interior decorators until the sandwiches are gone and they’re picking at crumbs, stalling the inevitable.

“Brendon says you aren’t returning his calls,” Spencer says, leading into it with the little grace he can muster.

Ryan just shrugs, shades still on to block the sun’s rays and hard to read behind dark lenses. “I’ve been busy.”

“What do you want to do?” Spencer asks. Sometimes being blunt is the only way to accomplish anything.

Ryan’s silent for a long time, graceful fingers fussing with his napkin, smoothing it out over the table. Finally he says, “I think maybe we should just keep doing what we’ve been doing.” He looks up then, and Spencer recognizes Ryan looking for approval even behind sunglasses and a suit. “We seem to be doing okay, right? I mean, Jon and I are. And you guys should write what you want to write.”

Spencer had approached this moment filled with something like dread, used to have nightmares about the end of their band and everything they’ve worked for being torn apart, but now that it’s here, he feels only relief. That’s something of a surprise, but then he doesn’t honestly know if their friendships could have survived another round of Ryan and Brendon’s songwriting and recording process, especially with the added tension of Jon and Spencer now divided fairly clearly onto opposite sides.

“Good,” he says, the gratitude seeping into his voice. “That’s good. I’m glad. I think…” He has to take a minute to get another breath, but it’s surprisingly easy to say once he’s thought it. “That’s what I was going to say, too.”

Ryan fidgets for a moment, fussy and awkward again. “So that’s it,” he says slowly, careful.

Spencer rolls his eyes, relief bringing with it a rolling wash of giddiness. “Yeah, right,” he says. “We’re going to be camped out at each other’s places trading ideas within a month. You’ll probably open on tour for us once we finish up with Blink.”

Ryan makes a face, but Spencer can see it happening, easily, once Ryan and Jon finish up some songs and need a tour to promote them. What better way to start out than by playing for their former fan base? And whatever else, touring together has never been their problem.

“You’re keeping the name, then?” Ryan asks, and he sounds almost wistful.

“Well, someone’s got to go on this tour,” Spencer points out. “We have a contract. And I don’t think you and Jon want to do it.” He also doesn’t think they’ll peel the remainder of their band and the Blink 182 tour out of Brendon’s desperately clinging hands, but he doesn’t mention that.

“No,” Ryan agrees. He’s quiet again, and then he finally says, “Okay.”

The giddiness has been replaced by nerves, a cluster of them fluttering around in the pit of Spencer’s stomach. “Okay,” he echoes.

They both stand at the same time, chairs scraping awkwardly over cement. Ryan lunges forward at the same time Spencer reaches for him, their elbows knocking together as they fold into a familiar hug.

“Don’t disappear on me,” Spencer says fiercely. That’s what he’s most afraid of, giving this band up. He’s holding onto Ryan harder than he is the music, and has been for a long time.

“No,” Ryan agrees. He straightens out his suit and adjusts his sunglasses, smiling. “I’ll call you,” he says.

“You’d better,” Spencer returns around the sudden lump in his throat. He pauses for a moment, then asks, “You want to tell Brendon?”

Ryan shakes his head. “I’ll tell Jon,” he says. “You tell Brendon.”

So the camps are staying divided for now, then. At least now they have a chance to change that.

-

Spencer considers making Ryan tell Pete, but in the end he knows Ryan never will, and besides, Spencer is the one who handles things like that. He and Brendon fly out to spend the weekend. Pete knows something’s up, is still waiting for them to give him some news, but he doesn’t push it, just hugs them both and invites them in.

They end up out on the patio, drinking beer and listening to jazz on Pete’s iPod speakers long after the sun goes down. Brendon’s in supernanny mode, fussing over Bronx in the living room and giving Ashlee a brief respite from parenthood so she can join them outside.

Pete leaves it for a while, but Spencer can see the glint in his eyes, the questions waiting to be asked, and he leaves himself as open to it as he can, sprawled loose and easy on the deck furniture.

Pete finally comes around to it near nine, when they’re on their second beer and the playlist has started repeating one of Pete’s favorites. Brendon has disappeared upstairs with Bronx, soothing Ashlee into staying put with the promise of lullabies and insider knowledge of a diaper bag. She says goodnight when it’s been quiet for a while, going to check on them, leaving Pete and Spencer alone in expectant silence.

“I know this is a social visit,” Pete says at last, leaning against the back of his chair, “but something tells me there’s more.”

Spencer finishes the dregs of his beer, gone warm in the bottom of the bottle. “Jon and Ryan are out,” he says finally. It’s easier to say than he’d expected, a sharp, clean feeling that fills him with sudden buoyancy. “They’re doing their own thing.”

“Officially?” Pete asks, sharp-eyed and attentive. He’s their boss now, as well as their friend; Spencer recognizes the subtle shift from buddy to businessman.

Spencer nods. There’s enough light coming from inside the house that he knows Pete can see it. “We haven’t made it public yet, but yeah, it’s done.”

Pete’s quiet for a second, a strange moment of silence for their loss. “You and Brendon?” he asks finally. The question itself is casual, but Spencer hears the undercurrent beneath it.

“We’re both still in it,” Spencer answers. “I think we’re probably keeping the name, too.”

“Does Brendon know?” Pete asks.

The question throws Spencer for a loop, and for a moment he just stares. They’ve known Pete for a while, and he’s the one who signed them, but he has to know there’s no way any of them would tell him anything before they discussed it with each other first. That’s the way they’ve always been; there’s the band, and then there’s everyone else. The outsiders. Spencer can’t quite bring himself to put Ryan and Jon in that category yet.

Pete seems to know it, too, or read it in Spencer’s face, because his lip curls a little, showing teeth. “I’m just saying,” he says. “He’s kind of been acting like the mopiest little hedgehog around here, so you might want to make sure he’s clear on the plan.”

Spencer’s still staring. Brendon’s a good actor when he wants to be, but he shouldn’t be able to fool them. Not Spencer, not one of his band.

He and Pete say goodnight, promising to talk more in the morning, and Spencer absentmindedly cleans up on the patio before he heads inside.  
What’s funny is that he and Brendon haven’t really been writing any songs yet. Spencer’s done some stuff on his own, rhythms he wants to try and beats he thinks could work for the sound they’re trying to get back to, but that’s all. Brendon has been writing, of course, because Brendon breathes music, but it’s been simple melodies that never go anywhere, chord progressions that fade almost as soon as he finishes playing them. They haven’t written anything together, nothing that could be considered the start of an actual song.

They’ve been waiting, he thinks, for Jon and Ryan. Only now there’s nothing left to wait for. And maybe it’s more than that. Maybe Brendon hasn’t let himself hope.

He finds Brendon inside on one of the couches, and sits down next to him, close but not too close. He’s been trying to think of a good opening line, but when Brendon looks up at him, what he ends up saying is, “You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”

Brendon fiddles with one of Bronx’s toys, reassembling a rainbow-colored plastic cube currently in pieces. “You’re his best friend.”

Spencer bumps his shoulder. Brendon tenses, but he relaxes almost as fast, leaning in towards physical contact like a plant reaching for sunlight. “You’re my lead singer,” Spencer says.

Brendon looks up, quick and wary. Whatever he sees in Spencer’s neutral expression makes him smile a little, tentative. “He’s already pissed at me,” he says. “And now I’m stealing you.”

“He’ll get over it,” Spencer says. “He knew I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life playing a fucking egg shaker.”

Brendon’s smile widens, and Spencer wants to smack himself for not seeing how subdued Brendon was before. He’d chalked it up to mourning over Jon and Ryan, but nothing keeps Brendon down when there is new music on the horizon.

“I was thinking more dance beats,” Brendon says, hands already dancing, gestures Spencer can almost interpret as ‘clave pattern’ and ‘cymbals.’ There are eighth notes racing behind his eyes.

“Come on,” Spencer says. “We’ve got music to write.”

-

Absurdly, it’s seeing Brent that really makes Spencer feel better. He’d thought, if anything, that it would be more awkward now, but Brent has moved on and so have they, so telling him about the split – the divorce, Pete is calling it – isn’t as hard as Spencer had imagined.

“That sucks,” Brent says sympathetically over Port of Subs, and it sounds genuine. “So it’s just you and Brendon now?”

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “And Eric’s working with Jon and Ryan, so it looks like we’ll need a new touring band as well. Studio musicians, maybe. Pete’s looking into some options.”

“Too bad you can’t grow another pair of hands, or Brendon could just play everything himself,” Brent muses. “You know he’d love that.”

Spencer thinks about the Rock Band tour, and then he thinks about the nights in the studio in Maryland where Brendon ended up recording the bass parts for Brent, as well as guitar and keyboard, because they were short on time and no one else was as good as he was.

“Be careful what you wish for,” he says wryly, because he has a feeling Brendon will be pushing for just that, saying, ‘I can do it, seriously, just watch me, I can,’ and Spencer isn’t very good at standing up to him.

“You’ll find people,” Brent says, shrugging. “You found Jon.”

Jon was different, but Spencer doesn’t need to say that to Brent. During this whole conversation, he’s been waiting for Brent to say something, ‘now you know how I feel,’ or ‘karma’s a bitch.’ He hasn’t, though, and Spencer is as grateful for that as he feels undeserving of the courtesy. They were kids, he knows. They all handled things badly. Brent just had to deal with more of the consequences than the rest of them.

“I don’t know if we’re going to be looking for new band members,” Spencer says. “Not right away, at least. Just touring musicians. We’ve got shows coming up next month.”

He feels it, the space in the conversation when he could say, _want to come back?_ and doesn’t. They’re not seventeen anymore, though, and they’ve crossed that bridge. It still leaves an awkward hole in the conversation, and both of them sit for a minute, lost in their own thoughts and picking at the remains of shredded lettuce and mustard.

Brent shakes his cup until the ice rattles around into a more satisfactory arrangement, and slurps the last watery root beer from the bottom. “It’s funny,” he says thoughtfully, pushing the cup around in its puddle of condensation. “I always thought if anyone was going to be last left standing, it would be you and Ryan.”

Spencer swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, and reaches for his own drink to wash it down. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

-

The next time Spencer hears from Ryan, it’s an oversized white envelope posted priority mail, and it’s really from Ryan’s lawyer.

At first he’s pissed off because after more than a week of avoiding phone calls, this is how Ryan contacts him, and then he’s pissed off because of what the document actually says. He tosses the papers down on the table, walks around the kitchen once to cool off, and then picks up his phone. Brendon’s out with Shane, picking up fast food for lunch, but Spencer doesn’t want him to read this yet anyway.

For once, Ryan actually picks up the phone.

“This is bullshit,” Spencer says without preamble.

There’s a brief pause on the other end. “Oh,” Ryan says eventually. “I was going to call you.”

Spencer doesn’t doubt that he was. With Ryan, a lot of things fall under the heading of ‘the best intentions.’ It doesn’t change what the document spells out, though.

“We’re keeping the name,” Spencer tells him flatly. “But you’re not getting rights over future music as a ‘founding member,’ that’s bullshit. Brendon and I are the band now, the only ones making money off new albums will be the two of us.”

“You’re using some of what we worked on together,” Ryan says quickly. “Aren’t you?”

Spencer doesn’t know, actually. They’ve been working constantly, song after song after song, but it’s all a jumble of new and old ideas, things Brendon may have played once next to a campfire or Ryan may have come up with in the cabin, and too mixed up to tell.

“We’ll talk about individual song rights when the album is finished,” Spencer says, which is by no means a concession. “Have you even heard the new stuff?” He’s been uploading the files to their server, the one they used to share music back when they were still pretending to write together. He hasn’t seen anyone else logged on recently, though, besides him and Brendon.

“We’ve been working on our own songs,” Ryan says, but Spencer hears the shiftiness in his voice. He thinks he knows what this is really about, knows Ryan well enough to read when an envelope full of legal papers is legitimate and when it’s just a front for something else. This is about Ryan trying to hold onto the band, trying to hold onto _Spencer,_ and going about it in entirely the wrong way.

“I’m not going to stop being your best friend, dipshit,” Spencer says.

“I know,” Ryan says, pretending to sound annoyed, but Spencer can hear how pleased he sounds beneath it. “It’s just legal stuff. We have to sort it out eventually.”

“Fine,” Spencer says. “But not in this bullshit way. I’ll talk to Brendon, we’ll have the label draw something up. You can have your lawyer look it over and get back to us.”

“Okay,” Ryan agrees complacently enough. Spencer wonders if this was really a ploy just to get him to call, and fights down the brief urge to curl his hands around Ryan’s shoulders and shake.

“And we’re cutting Jon out of the proceeds from _Fever_ ,” Spencer continues, ignoring Ryan’s immediate noise of protest. “He was getting that as a _member of the band,_ and he’s not anymore. He’ll still get his cut off the second one.”

Ryan grumbles a little more, but he doesn’t sound all that worked up about it, which just lends support to Spencer’s theory that Ryan wasn’t doing this to screw them over directly, whatever the end result.

They talk about other things, Spencer’s family and Ryan’s attempts at interior decorating, and finally come back around to the band.

“So it’s just you and Brendon now,” Ryan says, sly. “Must be nice to only have to split that paycheck two ways.”

Spencer bites back the immediate retorts about Ryan being the one who left, because he knows as well as anyone that it hadn’t been working the way it was, and Ryan’s hurting too, still licking his wounds. There’s shit that went down with Ryan and Brendon that Spencer doesn’t even know the details of, just that it happened and it’s still raw for both of them.

“We make a good team,” Spencer says, not rising to the bait. “Just like you and Jon.”

“Are you fucking him yet?” Ryan asks, because Ryan is all sharp edges lately, and he knows where and how to hurt.

Spencer’s tongue is just as sharp, and he’d come back with, ‘Are you fucking Jon?’ but it’s not a barb that would strike home. Ryan is straight, and Jon is straight _and_ in love with Cassie, and it’s not the same thing at all.

He opens his mouth to make the familiar retort, _I’m not fucking up the band,_ which is when he realizes that the band is already fucked beyond repair. It hits him like a punch to the gut, and he doesn’t know how to respond anymore.

Ryan is coolly, cruelly triumphant, and Spencer kind of wants to punch him, except that he can sense the hurt lurking under Ryan’s aloof surface, and he understands why Ryan is lashing out. He also thinks maybe Ryan is trying to tell him something, to give his blessing in a twisted, fucked-up way.

“No,” he says instead. Then, “Call Pete. You know he’d sign you if you asked.”

Ryan mutters something Spencer doesn’t catch, but he thinks maybe Ryan will do it now, start mending bridges instead of burning them. Knowing Ryan, he’s been holding back for fear of rejection, which is almost funny, considering how they got signed in the first place. It goes to show, though, how things have changed. Ryan never had anything to lose, before.

“I’ll call you next week,” Spencer says, signing off. “We’ll get together, do something.”

“Okay,” Ryan agrees. There’s silence for a moment, the sound of Ryan working up to something, and then he says, “Tell Brendon I said hey.”

Something loosens in Spencer’s chest. “Will do,” he says, and for the first time, he feels like they might all be okay.

-

Spencer has been taking a lot of pictures lately, mostly of Brendon. He worries that it will make him look obvious, but he really does want to give something back to their fans, show them the band isn’t over. He takes pictures of Brendon singing, playing, tuning a guitar, and a few of him doing more domestic and non-band-related things until Brendon started making faces at him through the lens.

Spencer just wants them to get back to normal. He uploads the pictures to his computer and they talk about recording something, a demo or a cover, to help smooth things along.

They’ve written an astonishing amount for such a short time. It’s both easier and harder with only two of them; harder in that there are less ideas being thrown around, so sometimes they really do just get stuck, but easier in that there’s less quarreling over how the music should sound. The absence of Ryan means Brendon isn’t being pushed as hard to excel, but there are also considerably fewer nights spent screaming about chord changes.

They record a few things on crappy home studio equipment and send them in a zip file to Pete, keeping him apprised of their process. He’d largely left them alone during the cabin sessions and again in Vegas, but Spencer’s not sure that was necessarily for the best. It worked fine when there were four of them, but now there are two, and both of them sometimes keenly feel the need for another ear.

Spencer’s back and shoulders ache, in a good way that makes him feel like they’re making progress. He’s playing constantly; really _playing,_ complicated rhythms and a dozen drums at a time the way he hasn’t ever before. He and Brendon are both determined to prove themselves with this album, and that means being the best they’ve ever been.

They still take breaks, of course; keeping Brendon away from the waves is an impossible feat for anyone to achieve, and they do still know to take breaks for take-out and occasionally a joint. Inevitably, though, they wander back into discussing the bridge of that one song, or the bass line on another, and then it’s back to the studio, banging out one track at a time.

Brendon still gets melancholy sometimes, and there’s at least one sad, sweet song coming out of it. Spencer finds him sitting on the floor one evening, guitar cradled carefully in his arms and laptop open in front of him. There’s music coming from the speakers, and Brendon listens with his eyes closed, picking out the melody a fragment at a time.

It takes Spencer a minute to recognize Hillside Session, and only when Brendon reaches out and clicks on his browser window to start the song over again. His fingers are more certain on the strings this time, following the ghost of Jon’s, and Spencer leans back against the doorframe and just watches him.

It’s not a secret that Brendon’s a little bit in love with all of them. No one’s ever given him a hard time about it, because Brendon’s infatuations are mostly innocent, but they know when he jokes about marrying his band that he’s only half-kidding.

It had been Ryan first, in the early days, when Ryan thought he was the epitome of cool and Brendon obviously thought the same, hanging on his words like they were a lifeline that would pull Brendon out of his shitty life and into something better. Jon had been the most obvious, and Spencer still thanks God that Jon knew not to be scared off by Brendon’s enthusiastic affection.

Once it became Spencer’s turn, he’d almost been waiting for it. He hadn’t been ready then, though, too wrapped up in Haley and being an adult, and the giddy flush of adoration had passed in a whirlwind of blinding smiles and all-enveloping hugs.

By the time Spencer had felt the now-familiar tingle in his stomach, Brendon had moved on to Shane, and Spencer still isn’t sure whether he’s grateful for that or not. It would have been a lot to take, Brendon’s crush on him colliding full-on with Spencer’s growing feelings for Brendon, but he thinks it might have been easier than this, the two of them taking turns pining and never quite matching up with each other.

Brendon strums the last few chords of the song and lets his hand drop over the strings, stilling the sound. He still has his eyes closed, and Spencer thinks with a pang that even when Brendon had moved on to being infatuated with other people, he’d still been more than halfway in love with Jon. They all had.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and slips away before Brendon opens his eyes, padding quietly through to the kitchen as his fingers tap out a text.

 _Call him, douchenozzle,_ he sends, snapping his phone shut with satisfaction, and goes to see what leftovers are in the fridge.

-

Thus far today, Brendon has written fragments of two happy songs and about seven that sound like fucked-up versions of Amazing Grace. Spencer throws a drumstick casually at his head because Ryan isn’t there to spark Brendon out of his funk, and offers him a compromise. “One more,” he warns, “and then you have to write something that doesn’t make me feel like my grandma just died.”

Brendon grumbles, but he switches keys to something major rather than minor, and every little bit helps. Spencer stretches out, twirling his sticks in both hands to keep his fingers limber. They’re not making a lot of progress today, and the call of the ocean outside is louder than ever, but they made a deal with each other. If they’re not writing, they have to work on press.

Even with Pete’s support, neither of them are ready to start doing press yet.

Spencer thinks it might fall to him no matter what, at least at first, because while he and Brendon have always been good at doing interviews together, Brendon alone deals with them like a skittish sheep facing down the wolves. With the current musical shitstorm they’re hurling at the metaphorical fan, he’s likely to end up fleeced.

Brendon’s good with their fans, though. Maybe they could type up an official statement, something more than the fantastically emo and maudlin apology Spencer has started on his laptop somewhere. Brendon’s upbeat and sincere; he could help Spencer pull it out of the quagmire of guilt it’s currently wallowing in.

He realizes he’s daydreaming only when the chords Brendon is playing clash horribly with his absentminded drum roll. They both look up at each other, and Brendon flashes him a quick half-smile that means neither of them are getting anywhere and they both know it.

“Break,” Spencer decides, and Brendon sets aside his guitar without any sign of reluctance, reaching for his laptop instead. The backdrop looks familiar, and Spencer just sits for a minute, thinking and tapping his snare.

Dueling Banjos starts playing from his phone, and he blinks. It’s not a ringtone he’s heard in a while. He’s only been using it for the past month, so Brendon doesn’t recognize it, just keeps scrolling slowly down the webpage without looking up.

Spencer picks up his phone and goes into the next room, not wanting an eavesdropper until he knows what this is about. “Hey,” he says, trying to sound welcoming and relaxed, and ending up mostly nervous.

“Hey,” Jon says easily, and Spencer’s shoulders ease a tiny, minute fraction. “I texted Brendon.”

“I figured,” Spencer answers, unable to help his grin. “He’s reading your twitter page.”

“As he should be,” Jon replies solemnly. “It’s full of insight and wisdom.”

Spencer laughs, a little startled that it’s so easy, after the tension of the past weeks. “What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you two had guest rooms available for the weekend.” Jon’s voice is still lazy, but it’s a serious enough request to catch Spencer off guard. “Two, preferably, but Ryan and I can always share floor space and bundle up the air mattresses.”

Spencer twists a finger into the hem of his shirt. “I’m guessing you didn’t include this in your text to Brendon,” he says finally. “I would have heard about it by now.”

Spencer knows Jon well enough that he can almost see the shrug. “I wanted to run it by you first,” Jon says. There’s a pause as Spencer continues thinking, and then Jon adds, “You tend to be more honest with me. Brendon can get tricky to read sometimes when he starts hiding things.”

It’s true, but Spencer doesn’t think Jon gives himself enough credit for being able to figure Brendon out. It’s a skill they’ve all had to hone over the years. That doesn’t change his answer, though. “He wants you here. You know that.”

Jon hums a little, not disagreeing but maybe reflecting on the complexities of that particular issue. “He and Ryan are going to embark on nuclear warfare once we finally get them together,” he comments. “I thought this way we could at least be a buffer.”

Spencer snorts. “Like that’ll do much good,” he says, but the idea isn’t without merit. Anyway, he misses Jon, and Ryan, and whether they all agree on it or not, a few days together should do them some good. “Buy the tickets. I think we can find some leftover air mattresses for you.”

“I want the deluxe model,” Jon quips, and his tone is sly when he says, “As long as we won’t be interrupting anything, now that you two finally have some privacy.”

Spencer almost fumbles the phone jerking it back so quickly. “What?” he manages. Hard on the heels of that thought is another: _Ryan_. “What the fuck is he telling you?”

“Nothing directly,” Jon admits, sounding unconvinced by Spencer’s denial. “He may have become slightly impaired and expounded at length on true love and modern-day romance and two hearts finding their way to each other. I only figured out who he was talking about when he said that destiny was a shared pair of drumsticks.”

Spencer bites back a groan. “He’s a retard,” he tells Jon evenly enough. “There’s nothing going on, Ryan is delusional. Send me your flight info.”

“Okay,” Jon agrees complacently, and Spencer makes him book the flight while they’re on the phone so he can make sure Jon doesn’t pick something stupidly expensive or flying to the wrong airport.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Spencer promises, and wanders back into the other room to find out what Brendon’s up to. He’s still online, clicking idly, but as soon as Spencer comes back in he picks up his guitar.

Spencer settles onto his stool and twirls his sticks. He’ll have to tell Brendon about their ex-bandmates’ impending visit soon enough, but right now doesn’t feel like the right time. He wants to keep it to himself for a little while. “Hey,” he says instead. “You know what I really miss?”

“Mighty Morphin Power Rangers?” Brendon hazards, grinning when Spencer makes a face at him.

“That stupid fucking exclamation point,” Spencer replies. “I was kind of proud of it. It made me feel special.”

He can see the comment on Brendon’s tongue about how special he is, but for once Brendon skips the punch line and gives it some serious thought. “We could add it back in,” he offers, watching Spencer carefully to gauge his reaction.

Spencer’s not kidding about missing it, but mostly he’s thinking about how when they dropped it, there were four hundred questions about it in every interview. Right now, every question they get is likely to be about Jon and Ryan. Spencer doesn’t think he’s the only one who’d be grateful for the deflection. If answering the same question a dozen times about a stupid exclamation point means not having to spend as many painful interviews fighting the rumor-mongers sniffing for a dramatic break-up story, he’s all for it.

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees, tapping his hi-hat. “Let’s do it.”

-

“You’re sure you’re okay with this,” Spencer says for the fifteenth time since they got up this morning.

Brendon just bounces on his heels, hands stuffed into his pockets. He’s wearing an L.A. shirt and hater-blockers, but the bright California smile is missing. Spencer doesn’t know why it’s bothering him so much, except that it’s _today,_ and there’s so much that could go wrong.

“Yeah, of course,” Brendon answers. He rubs the toe of one shoe over against the other, scuffing the rubber. The two of them are wearing brand-new sneakers, standing around in the airport waiting for United 107 to hit baggage claim. If Jon and Ryan show up wearing flip-flops, the irony will not be lost on him. As a literal interpretation, it’s almost too perfect.

“You’re sure?” Spencer asks again, and Brendon’s just opening his mouth to reply when Spencer’s cell rings.

He pulls it out of his pocket, frowning at the display, and answers with, “Dude, where are you?”

Ryan’s reply is a little slow, uncertain. “At Brendon’s house,” he says. “Where are you?”

“At the airport,” Spencer answers, just as slowly, because talking to Ryan is sometimes like communicating with a brilliant child. “Waiting to pick you up.”

“Oh.” Ryan’s quiet for a moment, thinking that one over. “Our flight got in early, we just caught a cab.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. Brendon’s expression has gone worried, which means he’s probably assuming Ryan and Jon have ditched them to make other plans. He mouths, ‘at the house’ and sees relief wash over Brendon’s face instantly.

“Spare key in the dead plant pot,” he says, and Spencer relays the information over the phone.

“Yeah, Jon found it,” Ryan answers. “Are you coming back, then?”

“On our way,” Spencer confirms, steering Brendon by the elbow to get him moving toward the parking lot. Brendon keeps looking over, caught between anxious and hopeful. “Probably half an hour, with traffic.”

“It’s cool,” Ryan says. Then, “Hey, can you bring home some food? We’re hungry.”

“Doritos in the cabinet,” Spencer replies, although Jon’s probably found those, too. “We’ll pick up Chinese or something.”

“Or sushi,” Ryan suggests. He pauses, then asks, “Brendon still likes sushi, right?”

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees, shaking his head since Ryan can’t see. It’s only been a few months, he doesn’t know why Ryan thinks Brendon will have changed all that drastically. Maybe he’s trying to be considerate. “The usual?”

He waits while Ryan considers, hitting the button for the elevator to the parking deck. “Yeah.” There’s a brief, muffled conversation. “Jon says get tempura.”

“I always get tempura,” Spencer tells him, because he knows this shit. Maybe he’s more annoyed than he ought to be, considering, but it feels like…it feels like Ryan assumes he doesn’t know them anymore, doesn’t remember Jon’s sushi order by heart, including the fucking tempura. He knows it’s probably just Ryan not remembering anything and assuming everyone else is the same way, but it still stings.

“Right, okay,” Ryan says. “That’s it, then.”

“I’ll see you in forty-five,” Spencer says, because he doesn’t want to talk about anything else, and hangs up.

The elevator doors open out onto the parking deck. Spencer steps out into the lot and jangles his keys for a few seconds, just letting everything go. Brendon’s beside him, watching with big, attentive eyes. Maybe Brendon should have been the one asking all the questions, this morning. Maybe Spencer’s not as okay as he’d originally thought.

“It’s just…” Spencer starts, and then doesn’t know how to finish. He blows out a breath and closes his fingers tight around the keys, until the metal teeth dig into his skin. “Never mind.”

He should be prepared by now, should recognize the way Brendon’s body shifts before he launches in for a hug. Some part of him must, because he’s ready for Brendon’s weight when it hits him, stance widened to keep them both upright. Brendon holds on tightly and Spencer feels his shoulders drop, a little of the tension easing away.

Brendon shrugs when he lets go. “I just wanted to do that now, while it was the two of us,” he says. He bites his lip, then grins. “Sushi?”

“Sushi,” Spencer confirms. He feels lighter when he walks the rest of the way to Brendon’s hybrid. Even if it is a disaster, he thinks, he’s not in this alone.

-

It’s not entirely a disaster. They head down to the beach and surf until they’re starving again, and then Jon and Spencer grill while Brendon and Ryan mix drinks and hang around them offering cookout advice. They don’t touch any instruments, not one of the seven guitars Brendon has strewn across the house, and when Spencer mentions the songs they’ve finished recording as demos, Ryan makes a noncommittal noise and changes the subject. Spencer thinks it might still be too soon.

Brendon gets a phone call when they’re all starting in on seconds, and dances off to take it in the house while Spencer fights with Ryan over the last hot dog.

“Zack,” Brendon reports when he comes back out. “Just checking in.”

“I can’t believe you’re keeping Zack, too,” Ryan mutters, and Brendon tenses up, shoulders straightening. Spencer sits uneasily, even though he knew – and Jon knew, too – that things like this were eventually going to come out in the wash.

“One of us is touring in a few weeks,” Brendon says, zero-to-irritated in the space of a few seconds. “Who do you think actually needs him right now?”

“So we get him as soon as we start touring?” Ryan shoots back. “Like a timeshare?”

“He works for the band,” Brendon snaps. “You’re not the band.”

Spencer stays quiet, his food forgotten on his plate. Jon is adopting the same strategy, perfected after months of sitting through Ryan and Brendon’s unique songwriting process, waiting to step in if it gets too ugly but mainly biding his time.

“Because it’s all about the name?” Ryan sneers. “You get the name, you get the label, you get the music…”

“You can keep half the fucking music,” Brendon interrupts. “It’s not like I’m going to be singing Behind the Sea anytime soon.”

Or Mad as Rabbits, Spencer thinks with a twinge. He’d thought of that, of course, going over set lists, but it hadn’t really hit home. Their favorite song to play live, out of the show.

“You get _Pete,_ ” Ryan continues, undaunted.

“Just fucking call him, Ross,” Brendon explodes, throwing his hands up in the air and losing half the chips off his plate in the process. “Get your head out of your ass and…”

“You get Zack,” Ryan overrides him, and Spencer sees it coming a second before Ryan finishes, “You get _Spencer._ ”

“Spencer chose to stay because he wants to actually be a _drummer,_ ” Brendon snaps.

“Spencer’s staying because he’s in love with _you,_ ” Ryan returns, triumphant, and Spencer thinks _oh, no, no._

Brendon looks a little lost, floundering now that the conversational rug has been pulled unexpectedly out from under him. “That’s not…”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Ryan says, monotone somewhere between sweet and vindictive.

“Shut the fuck up, Ryan,” Spencer snaps.

“Everybody in timeout,” Jon declares, standing up and setting aside his plate. They all glower at each other for another minute, but no one says anything. After the cabin and the knock-down-drag-out fights they all used to have up there, they established a hard and fast rule that when someone declares a timeout, everybody fucking takes it.

Finally Ryan storms into the house and slams the door. Banished from his own home, Brendon dithers for a few seconds longer before stomping off down the beach. Spencer lets the silence establish itself and then heaves a sigh.

Jon raises his eyebrows a little. It’s familiar for the two of them, a ritual long-practiced after much worse fights than this. “Which one do you want?” he asks.

Part of Spencer instinctually screams _Ryan_. He’s not sure, though, whether that’s the part that really wants to find Ryan, or the part that just wants to avoid talking to Brendon.

“Fuck it,” he says after a moment of consideration. “Let them walk it off, I don’t want to deal with either of them.”

Jon grins and cracks open another beer, passing it to Spencer. They clink their bottles together in a toast to something and sit out enjoying the weather.

Finally, though, the sun starts to really dip below the horizon and Spencer sighs again. They need to go in and sort this out, which means finding Brendon and bringing him back. He looks over at Jon, who has his eyebrows up again.

“I know,” Spencer says. “I’ll go find him.”

Jon surprises him, though, shaking his head. “You go talk to Ryan,” he says. “I’ll find Brendon. We already spend enough time the other way around.” He shuffles into his flip-flops and trudges down the beach, hands in his pockets and whistling.

Spencer smiles fondly after him before shaking his head and heading inside. He takes the assorted food and clutter with him, making just enough noise to let Ryan know he’s there if Ryan wants to talk.

Ryan slouches down after a few minutes, lurking in the doorway. Spencer turns around and wipes his hands off on the towel hanging by the oven, watching him.

“That was kind of a dicksmack move,” Spencer says.

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. He sounds contrite, for Ryan.

“That’s not why I’m playing with him,” Spencer continues.

“I know,” Ryan says, hunching over a little further.

“If it was about who I loved the most, I’d have stayed with you,” Spencer finishes, because maybe Ryan needs to hear that to really get it.

Ryan doesn’t reply, but his mouth starts to curve, the tiniest of smiles peeking through.

“You’re a douche,” Spencer sighs, but he smiles too, and then throws the towel at Ryan’s head. Ryan ducks, the smile coming out in full now behind his tousled hair. Spencer flips the porch light on for Jon and Brendon, and thinks that while they’re not back to normal yet, they’re at least closer than they have been for a long time now.

-

Jon and Brendon come in half an hour later, Brendon maybe a little clingier than usual, but it’s hard to tell since he’s hanging on Jon. Jon seems to inspire clinginess in a way none of the rest of them do.

Brendon and Ryan disappear down the hall into one of the guest bedrooms, and Spencer listens in shamelessly, but he can’t hear anything besides the low murmur of voices and the occasional absent plink of plucked guitar string. Jon beats him at Mario Kart five times in a row, and Spencer tries not to be anxious about whatever’s happening down the hall. He knows they have their own shit to work out.

Eventually Ryan comes back in, looking slightly more at ease, and starts gleefully eviscerating Spencer’s movie collection and his taste in films. They finally settle on something both of them find acceptable, approved by Jon’s ambivalent shrug, and slide in the disc.

“Should someone go get Brendon?” Spencer asks. He’s not sure how Ryan and Brendon left things, but sometimes Brendon needs some alone time to work things out in his head.

“You go,” Ryan says. “We’ll make popcorn.”

“Top cabinet,” Spencer says, then turns around and leans back in to warn, “don’t burn it.”

They’re going to burn it anyway, he knows, which is why Jon and Ryan are never left in charge of microwave snacks, but there are plenty of bags left, so he can always make more.

Brendon’s sitting on the bed in the guest room, a guitar laying flat on the blanket in front of him. He’s picking at the strings quietly, not with any sort of intent behind it, barely paying attention. His eyes have an unfocused look that sharpens on Spencer once he steps into the room, knocking lightly on the wooden door frame.

“We’re going to watch a movie,” he offers, suddenly feeling awkward, his hands in his pockets for lack of anywhere else comfortable to settle. “You feel like coming out?”

“Maybe in a minute,” Brendon allows. He thumbs another string, a single low note vibrating in the mostly-empty room. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Spencer replies. He doesn’t know what else to say, not about the fight and not about Ryan’s confession, but he feels like he ought to say something. To apologize, even though he didn’t do anything. The silence finally starts to get awkward, with Brendon sitting there cross-legged and gazing at him, and Spencer lurking in the doorway. He turns to go, but Brendon’s hand flattens out over the guitar strings, silencing the faint sound.

“Spence,” he says, and Spencer steels himself, turns back around. Brendon looks a little lost again, though, like he’s not sure what to say now that he’s gotten Spencer to stay. They both stare at each other for another few seconds, Brendon chewing on his lip. Spencer breaks first.

“That’s not why I’m playing with you,” he says. “And Ryan knows it.”

Brendon just nods, slowly. “I know,” he answers. “He told me.”

Spencer shrugs, considering the matter closed, more or less, and starts to turn away again.

“You didn’t say it wasn’t true,” Brendon says suddenly, and Spencer freezes in place. When he looks back at the bed, Brendon’s eyes are dark and determined. “You said it wasn’t the reason, but you didn’t say it was a lie.”

Spencer doesn’t know exactly how to handle this situation. It’s not how he’d imagined this confession going, when he thought about it. Brendon sets the guitar aside carefully and stands up, coming closer. Spencer starts to take an automatic step back, but the door frame is right behind him, pressing between his shoulder blades. There’s nowhere to go but forward.

Brendon’s looking at him the way he did a year ago, the way he looked at Jon, and Ryan before that. Spencer doesn’t say anything, just steps forward and rests his hand on the strong, stubborn angle of Brendon’s jaw, tilting his face up. Brendon’s eyes stay locked with his as Spencer leans in, and then at the last second he turns his head, pushing his forehead against Spencer’s cheek.

“You’re all I have left,” he says, almost too softly, the words broken and frustrated. “I can’t…”

“Brendon,” Spencer cuts him off, folding his hands over Brendon’s sharp shoulder blades, folding him into a hug. “I already told you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I can’t lose you,” Brendon insists. “Not you too.”

Spencer squeezes him just a little tighter, holding on for himself as much as Brendon. “You’re not losing me.” He smiles faintly. “Besides, isn’t that a good reason to hold on tighter?”

Brendon looks up, breathing already beginning to shallow into panic. “What if…?”

Spencer doesn’t let him get there. He kisses Brendon the way he’s wanted to for months now, the way he’s thought about nearly every morning in the shower and every night that Brendon falls asleep on the couch, with his mouth open slightly and his glasses falling off his nose. He kisses Brendon without giving him a way out, parting his lips and sucking on his tongue until Brendon makes a little noise in the back of his throat that makes Spencer’s blood hum and sing.

He breaks away when Brendon starts pushing, gentle but firm. Brendon doesn’t go far, though, still comfortably resting in the now slightly tighter circle of Spencer’s arms, so Spencer thinks maybe he just needs a minute to breathe, rather than room to have a full-blown panic attack.

Brendon rests his head on Spencer’s shoulder and turns so that his nose is pushed into Spencer’s neck above the collar of his shirt. They just breathe together for a minute or two, and then Brendon tilts his head up slightly and says, “I smell popcorn.”

“Ryan and Jon,” Spencer answers, utterly failing to resist the urge to hug Brendon closer against his chest. “They’ve probably burnt it.”

“Hmm,” Brendon agrees, nuzzling a little at his neck. “Maybe we should get out there.”

“Yeah,” Spencer breathes, with only the faintest trace of reluctance, and makes himself let go. Brendon stands up, then stretches up onto his tiptoes and tilts his head back for one more lingering kiss before he pulls away.

“We’ll be okay,” Brendon says, with a note in his voice that’s almost a question but not quite uncertain. His fingers are still tucked into Spencer’s belt loops, where they found their way sometime during that last kiss. Spencer can hear Jon and Ryan talking out in the living room, and catches the distinct scent of burnt popcorn.

“Yeah,” he says. He thinks they really will.


End file.
